


Bobby Three Scoops

by laliquey



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Chocolate Box Exchange 2018, Gen, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-15 07:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13608513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laliquey/pseuds/laliquey
Summary: August 7, 2017: Based on summer reporting that Trump was sending notes of "appreciation and greetings" to Robert Mueller, which probably wasn't a big hit with Robert Mueller.





	Bobby Three Scoops

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosied](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosied/gifts).



> The requested characters are seen through the eyes of others here, but I hope this plays to some of your likes, rosied! :)

Rather than feeling like valuable cogs in a great polished machine, the support staff often feels nervous. No matter what their experience or what vaunted firm they've been plucked from, it's easy feel overwhelmed.

It's quietly discussed when they're away from loftier ears, how the stakes are so high every minute of every day...the impostor syndrome and low-key fear that shadows every print job and every email sent. Nothing should ever go wrong but it still does, like when one of their ranks screwed up the Bates numbering three thousand pages ago and had to ask Bob fucking Mueller if adding an alpha suffix was acceptable to him. It was, but barely.

Two of them hover near the front of the hive to cover for the person who signs for registered mail and keeps track of how much three-hole punch is left. It's a welcome break, but the tension never quite disappears.

"I heard that Bob and a few of the others were here past midnight last night."

"Really? 'Cause they were all here at seven when I got here." So much for pride in showing up at that brutal hour...those guys work like  _machines._

"I think they found something big. Something we don't know about yet."

"Huh." Something they may or may not even _want_ to know about. "I wish my job was just signing for mail. It'd be like a vacation compar..."

"Shut up." A shadow casts across the sidelight window and the doorknob clicks and turns.

The door opens to reveal a young lady who seems as skittish and timid as they are, hyper-aware of the gravity attached to every move. "Um, hi, This is for the Special Counsel. From the President," she mutters, not making eye contact as the manila envelope changes hands.

"Thanks."

Once she's gone the envelope's sheared open, and a smaller blue one's inside. What it contains might be the clumsiest, most embarrassing thing they've ever seen.

"Wow. Remind me what the hell we do with these."

"You have to tell Bob what it is but he won't want to see it. Scan, stamp, & file."

"Oh my God. You take it to him."

"Dude. No way."

"I bought your last coffee."

Life is so unfair. "Fine."

He walks it down the hall. All missives leading up to this one have been varying degrees of ridiculous: clumsy ass-kissing at best, concrete evidence at worst. Some were clearly dictated by John Dowd, but even then the counterfeit gentility is so awkward it's a pleasure to fire back a soulless form letter:

 

 **{ DATE** **\@** **"MMMM d, yyyy" }**

 

**Dear President Trump,**

**Thank you for your correspondence. As has been noted before, the** **special counsel will neither read nor respond at this time.**

**Cordially,**

**OSC**

 

And yet they keep coming.

Nobody wants to be biased - they can't be, but between common knowledge like the President's bizarre ice cream requirements and a front row seat to this weird-ass shit, it's hard not to feel a slight tug one way, and not toward one so much as away from the other.

A slight pause for bravery is necessary outside Mr. Mueller's office. He's never mean but occasionally disappointed, which is far worse than if he were swinging a mace on fire. A deep breath, another step...

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, sir. It's another message. From him."

It's like he's suppressing a sigh. "Number it and file with the others."

"Sir, it's....sort of funny. I know you don't read anything he sends, but...it's a birthday card."

He sighs unabashedly and his eyes almost roll.

"It's got glittery stars that pop up when you open it, and...a cartoon dog in a shower cap. And a joke that's not very funny."

Mr. Mueller looks like he has the world's worst headache.

"Would you like to see it?"

"No. Thank you."

"Issue the standard response?"

"Please. Thank you."

Three others are clustered down the hall, waiting to hear. "Well? What'd he say?"

"Scan, stamp, & file. Send the usual letter back."

"He must be saving them up. I think he has to look at all that stuff, eventually."

"Maybe." It's almost noon. "I wonder if we should we do something for him. Like get a cake?"

"I can't imagine he eats cake."

Still, word circulates and someone runs four blocks away and comes back with a huge slab of it on a dinner plate with ice cream. The restaurant charged a fifty dollar deposit for the plate they want back eventually, though they were kind enough to scrounge up a candle.

Everyone gathers in and around his office and the bravest paralegal sets it in front of him. "Happy Birthday, Bob."

Holy hell he looks like he's about to fire every one of them with a terse memo and start over with real professionals...

"I sincerely hope your gift to me is that there will be no singing."

"We won't." The plate holds the melting punchline but it's still worth saying. "Although we do think you deserve three scoops."

Every breath is held for a painful moment, and then Mr. Mueller _laughs._ He laughs hard enough to make up for all the times he doesn't, and it swells into a welcome wave that everyone can share. The candle's extinguished and there's an undercurrent of thought. _Did he make a wish? Does Bob believe in that shit? What the hell would he even wish for?_

He's suddenly as relaxed as they've ever seen him, and it's a revelation that the man actually does eat cake. "Who else has a birthday coming up?" he asks lightly. "Anyone? Ah." He nods at the shy Virgo who waves from the doorway. "Next time let's order a big one so everybody gets a piece. You know..." he says, and slowly points the fork tines around the room. "I expect every one of you will get at least one if you stay on. And I hope you will."

"Thank you, sir."

"Thanks. Happy birthday."

Everyone files out, suddenly far more exhilarated than afraid. There's at least another year of this, which has to mean they're on the right side of it.

 

_What the hell did they find last night?_

 

It's hard, fighting the ticklish need to talk about it while not wanting to talk about it, and Bob's mild praise hums through the office as everyone returns to work with heads held a little bit higher.


End file.
